Zii do fin Strun, Sil do Zoorre (Spirit of the Storm, Soul of Legends)
by Omega Gilgamesh
Summary: Completely reworked and reposted. As the civil war ravages the fatherland, the dragons and other old threats return. From this chaos will arise a dragonborn, embodying the ferocity of the inclement storm, and whose trials will push him to the very brink of ruination.
1. Prologue

Zii do fin Strun, Sil do Zoorre (Spirit of the Storm, Soul of Legends)

Disclaimer: I don't own squat. Nothing. Nadda. Everything present is property of Bethesda Softworks and/or ZeniMax Entertainment. Einherjar is a character archetype based on my first play through, while most of the other character's are based around archetypes created by other people.

Prologue

A mournful wind blew from the east, chilling her to the bone under the watchful stars. No matter how she held her cloak, the bitter autumn breeze slithered its way into it's folds, holding her in a mockery of a warm embrace. Siona tried to wrap the thick, green tarp around her tall, slender frame enough for overlap, but her bow always got in the way; and as much as she hated the cold, she wasn't going to let a stray sabercat catch her without a weapon ready.

She had worried that the plains and hills of Rorikstead would lead to violent storms, but she never imagined how cold the windchill of a clear, late autumn night in western Whiterun Hold could be. If she had a mirror, she wouldn't be surprised to find her lips, normally a shade darker than her chocolate Redguard skin, turned blue, and the cheeks normally framed well by high cheekbones to becomes drawn in and pale. Her black hair, turned in for a bop around her jawline, started to intrude into her vision. She resisted the urge to move it out of the way, as she found having it parted so it framed one side of her face and covered half of the other, leaving her right eye partially obstructed, gave her an allure of mystery that she found would lend credibility to her claims of being a mercenary-for-hire.

It wasn't entirely wrong, as she had been an adventurer for ten years until her sister died, leaving her to raise her neice Addy.

She continued on, through the bitting wind, through the forelorn thoughts. Across moons-lit pastures that were more rock than dirt, over logs crossing rivers she didn't dare swim through in the cold, she continued what she always did, putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to worry about the step after that. She tried not to worry, because she was never sure what she could and could not do; not now, not eight years back. Siona the Dragon Slayer, not a dream but an obligation to those she could protect. IF she could protect them. Surely even the almighty dragons could be felled with an arrow to the heart, and she could hit a hawk in flight on a moonless night at two hundred meters. At least, she could eight years ago.

She wasn't sure when she began to see the lights of Rorikstead, only knowing she had fewer and fewer steps on the cold, hard ground before she could rest. She hadn't lived in Skyrim during her adventuring days, but she couldn't help but think that long nights traveling in the Jerral Mountains didn't drain her a decade back. Eventually, she lit a torch so that any guards would see her approach and not make her for a bandit.

In the milky moonlight, she could see shapes, but couldn't always tell if they were houses, stables, or mounds. There could have been eighty houses, there could have been a dozen, doubtlessly with many more in the farms that surrounded villages like this. The lights were few and far between, but she could tell most were being held by people.

Her torch caused several lights to stop, assessing her. When she passed the outermost houses, one of which had the smell of a smithy, she was greeted by three guards bearing the Steed herald of Whiterun Hold, each holding a lantern.

"State your business." One of them demanded.

"Siona of Falkreath, passing through on my way to Solitude to join the Legion." She opened her cloak to show her unremarkable leather armor and elven bow so they knew what she was carrying. She considered her 'reason' close enough to the truth. She didn't want to be laughed at for thinking she could help quell the dragon threat.

"Very well." The guard stated, satisfied with her answer. "The Frostfruit Inn is over there." He pointed to a large building, the only one nearby that had candles lighting the door.

She thanked the guard, and made a bee-line to the inn. As she pushed the door open, she felt a wall of hot air pour over her. Inside, she found two Nords at the table, one wearing an apron appropriate for a barkeep.

She made her way to the table, sat down on a stool and asked for stew, warm mead, and if there was a bed vacant. "Of course" the barkeep answered, "we normally don't have many visitors outside of harvest. The dragons brought in a lot of travelers at first, believing the larger cities will protect them, but gods be praised we haven't seen one of those demons. I have some mead still warm, but the stew will take some time to make up."

"Thank you." She said, while pulling out her coin purse. She paid the man, who introduced himself as Mralki, and paid the amount he asked for.

"I'll make sure the bed's ready" said the much younger man sitting at the bar before he stood and moved to an adjacent room. Siona sensed some tension between him and the Innkeeper, and dismissed the curiosity that came with it just as quickly. Between sips of her mead, he held the glass bottle to warm her hands.

"So" she began conversationally as Mralki moved from stirring the stew to cleaning the countertop, "any chance you hosted the Dragonborn in here?"

He gave out a single billowing laugh, "I can only imagine. If he has, he never spoke a word of himself to anyone here. When travelers come, gossip nearly splits our seams."

She gave a half-smile. "I'll guard what I say, then." She took a longer swig of her mead, now starting to feel it warming her belly and face.

She thought about unstringing her bow when a guard burst through the door. "Mralki" he shouted, "A dragon! A dragon is coming toward the village. Take Erik and get into the cellar, quick!"

Ignoring the cold it would bring, Siona unlatched her cloak, letting it pool around her feet, grabbed her bow and ran after the guard. Outside, she knocked an arrow, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Before they could, she was blinded by white fire falling on a house. The source of the fire moved through the village with the speed that put a sprinting stallion to shame.

She couldn't see the beast behind the halo of that bright fire, but she could estimate as she nocked an arrow and pulled the fletch to her hair-drapped cheek. Adjusting for distance and the speed the dragon soared, she loosed an arrow, and without waiting to find out if it connected, she nocked another one.

Three more she unleashed as the dragon bobbed and weaved through the village fast enough that she fought to track it when the dragon stopped breathing fire, leaving it wreathed in darkness. Fletch to her cheek, she scanned around to find where the beast had gone. By this time, the village was lit by a dozen fires, lighting the cobblestone roads and guards search as desperately as she was, and nothing more.

A loud _thwump_ was all the warning she got as a blast of air nearly knocked her over. She regained her balance enough to turn, and saw a massive, jagged form above the Inn. It was thin, not as bulky as she imagined they would be, with large, bone-like spikes and smaller, smoother scales. The _thwump _hit her again as the dragon flapped its wings one more time before landing its two legs on top of the Inn.

She saw a line of thicker scales running down its chest, lined on the sides with argonian-like skin. It was into this softer flest that she loosed an arrow, as a dozen others joined her. Her arrow struck true, but did not dig enough to bury the entire arrowhead; most of the arrows shot by the guards simply bounced off.

The dragon pulled it's head back, as if preparing to lunge, and she knew what it was doing. She said a quick prayer to Mara, asking that her niece be protected without her. "Yol" the dragon spoke, and Siona turned away from the blindingly bright fire.

When she felt no pain, she opened her eyes to see fire on her sides, but with an untouched path in front of her. Stopping the flames was the silhouette of a man holding a magical ward in his hand. In his other hand he held a sword Siona absently noted for being in the ancient nordic style, and his armor reflected much of the light but appeared to be made of green and yellow glass. She could see little of his bare head, other than the outline of blonde hair.

The ward in his left hand disappeared as he reached for the second, identical sword at his hip. The dragon pulled its head back again when the man shouted, "Wuld nah kest!"

The dragon's head snapped back as the man shot through the air like one of her arrows, ramming into the beast's face. From there he jumped in the air and shouted again, "Fo krah diin!" Frost magic shot out of his mouth, pushing him higher into the air and hitting the dragon like a deluge of snow heavy enough to cause the inn's roof to nearly cave in.

The man landed in a crouch, plunging both swords into the ground, then shot off several rapid volleys of lightning magic into the dragon's face, causing it to let out several short roars of pain.

"Fus ro dah!" the dragon shouted, a blue lined bubble of energy slamming into the man and pushing him back so hard his feet dug trenches in the dirt. The dragon took off from the inn's roof with a leap, flapping to keep itself in the air. "Yol toor shul!" it shouted, unleashing a torrent of fire toward a congregation of half a dozen guards and townsfolk.

At the same time, the man shouted, "Tiid klo ul!" Siona couldn't see what he did after that, just the flames engulfing the street. When the fires subsided, she saw no bodies left. She then noticed on the other side of the scorched ground, in an alley between two houses were the guards and villagers, on the ground behind the armored man.

After a moment looking at the people he somehow saved, the man ran back out into the street, through the fires, and yelled, "Krii lun aus" A wave of energy hit the dragon, causing it's vains to glow blue. The dragon gave off a keening roar and landed, clearly in pain. The man charged, yelling, "Su grah dun" causing the air to shimmer and swirl around his swords.

"Rii vaaz zol" the dragon shouted, in a pained, almost pitiful voice.

"Feim" the man shouted. His body became wisps of mist that the dragon's dark energy passed right through him. The man's incorporealness vanished right as he swung his swords at the dragon's head. Sparks from blue fire shot out, along with several large scales and a few teeth as the swords cut, no, _shattered_ the dragon's flesh and bone where it hit, the enchantments on the blades flashing along with the sparks.

The dragon pulled its head back, rearing back on its legs to create distance between them. The man threw one of his swords into the dragon's thigh. Unable to maintain its standing position, the dragon held its body off the ground with its wings, one of which it swung at the man. He spun around, the blade moving through the air much faster than it should have, and cleaved right through the thick bone in the wing. As the dragon roared in pain, the man ran toward the dragon's leg, pushing his sword the rest of the way through the wing to cut it completely off. He then pulled out his other sword, and made a series of impossibly fast cuts to the dragon's leg, showering the area with blue sparks, scales, flesh, and blood. With a finally war cry, the man cleaved through the bone, severing the leg off completely.

The dragon rolled over, trying feebly to get away from the man, this simple mortal who had systematically crippled the most terrifying monster Siona had ever seen. As it keened and pathetically tried to get away from him, Siona felt a sense of pity for the wounded, pained beast.

Unable to roll farther away due to a house in the way, the dragon looked at the man, its face and jaw ruin, it managed to say in an almost pleading tone, "dovahkiin."

"Wuld nah kest" the man shouted, and slammed into the dragon's chest hard enough to push it against the house wall, his twin swords slammed up to the hilts in its breast, the entry points burning with blue flame.

There was no last cry, no last roar, the dragon's body just went slack as it breathed it's last.

With a sound akin to crackling kindling, the man with glass armor pulled his swords out of the beast, and Siona got her first good look at him. At first she couldn't put an age on him. Then with a start she realized he was much younger than she expected, no older than twenty five at most, but his pale face, bloodshot eyes with dark circles under them, and his short, dirty blond hair was slick with grease and as unkempt as bedhair, spoke of someone near his breaking point. Was this the heroic dragonborn that was supposed to save all of them?

As he walked away from the corpse behind him, the dragon's skin broke into tiny flames, and light flew from the remaining bones and into the dragonborn. The man's steps became labored, his breath quickened. She thought the dragon's power was hurting him, until he threw back his head and gave off a roar that was more beastial than human.

Siona noticed the villagers starting to mill around her, looking at this avatar of Akatosh that came to save them. None of them spoke, only stared on as the man breathed heavily, his back hunched and knees bent. He looked like a beast then, lowly growling with pent up aggression.

Nobody dared to approach him, whether from reverence or fear, Siona wasn't sure. Nearly a minute passed and nobody moved. A small movement, and the dragonborn seemed to see them for the first time. His entire demenor changed, his back straightened and his shoulders went back. He was tall, even for a nord, with long limbs and a slender figure complementing his high cheekbones and narrow jaw, and with his light blue eyes he looked the part of a regal nobleman in spite of the hollow cheeks and unhealthy pallor.

Then, without a word, he turned and continued down the road toward Dragonbridge. The citizens around Siona seemed confused, unsure what to do, but the Redguard knew what she had to do. Taking off at a run she quickly caught up with the dragonborn at the village limits and stepped in front of him.

"Hail, Dragonborn" she announced. The man didn't say anything, just stared at her with impatient, dead eyes. "I wish to enlist in your services."

"No" he immediately said in a deadpan voice, then stepped around her to continue down the road.

"Wait" she called out, moving in front of him again, but walking backwards so she wouldn't get pushed out of the way. "I can help, I'll do whatever I can to-"

"Back off!" he barked, causing Siona to jump. "Meyye unslaad, there's no end to you, is there? Krosis dezi, but my fate is my own. No one should follow me where I go, wunduniik"

Unsure what he was saying, Siona said the only thing that came to her mind. "And where are you going?"

"Krii bormahi, I going to kill my father."

So stunned by that answer, Siona stopped in her tracks, and the Dragonborn walked right around her as if she were a pile of dung on the road. His responce answered nothing, only raising more questions than she could ask. She left to find him so she could fight, not get thrown to the curb.

"What about the dragons?" She asked, his back to her. "Aren't you going to stop them?"

That made the man stop. "Stop them?" He asked, as if mulling a new idea through his head. "Why should I? Pogaan miraadde wah zind."

Siona took an instinctive step away from the man, no longer trusting the man's sanity. "It's your destiny, isn't it? As the dragonborn, you'll destroy the dragons for good."

"Oblaan pah dov?" He appeared to mull over that for a second. "Very well, do you have skill with that bow, wunduniik?"

Suddenly excited for his change in mood, she showed off the bow proudly. "I used to be called Siona the Red Arrow because of my skill. My father took this bow off a high elf officer he killed in the Hammerfell resistence."

"A fine weapon" the Dragonborn commented. "Now, prove your skill, and kill me with it."

Siona's heart skipped a beat, hardly believing what she was hearing him say.

"My body's that of a mortal, but my soul is that of a dragon" the man said when she failed to make a coherent reply. "Akatosh made a mistake gifting mortals with dragon souls, damning us to become tyrants" he walked toward her, filling her with dread. "Tiber Septim, Reman Cyrodiil, Alessia, all were blood thirsty, power hungry conquerers who we deify for their tyranny, fueled by the same dragon blood flowing through my veins" he stopped with his face towering over hers. "Would you end me in order to protect this world?"

Siona suddenly felt very small, very weak. She hadn't felt nearly this much fear when the dragon came after her. This man, this...creature, if he was what Skyrim was placing all it's hopes on...

"I thought so" he said before turning and continuing down the road.

He couldn't be the dragonborn, he couldn't be the legendary hero. But if he wasn't, then who was he? "Who are you?" Siona found herself whispering.

The man stopped one more time. "That's a good question, wunduniik" he said, turning his head to see her. "Einherjar, Hjalti, Junvomir, Dovahkiin, take your pick" resuming his walk, he stated without looking back, "Besides, what's a name but another lie?"

And he never looked back.

End of Prologue

Author's Note: so, this is my second attempt at this story. The first time I only had a vague outline of a story, and one major plothole (basically, I had a villain who did certain horrible things that I could NOT put a motivation behind, so I scrapped him). This is the first story of mine where I really made a detailed outline of events, motivations, and character analysis. Hopefully it works out.

And be warned, I've been fighting chronic procrastination my whole life so don't expect consistent updates.


	2. Book One: Kein (War) Chapter One

Book One: Kein (War)

Chapter One: Facing Death

With a groan, he awoke to a light that was just a little too bright, and a pounding headache. Out of force of habit, his first responce was, "Ugh, what did I _do_ last night?"

"You slept through it" a deep male voice, thick with eastern Skyrim, answered. "And all of yesterday and the night before as well. We weren't sure you'd wake up, with that nasty blow you took."

He found it unusually hard to focus his eyes, so he only got the vague outline of a large man in front of him with blond hair much more fair than his own, wearing blue. That background seemed to be...moving? That couldn't be right.

"Where am I?" He asked.

"You're in an Imperial convoy, going into Falkreath Hold, I think. They caught you in our battle two days ago. Trying to cross the border, were you?"

Cross the border? No...no that's not it. He was...on a mission. Scouting a caravan route for banditry or otherwise uncover what had been happening to supplies sent from Dark Water Crossing. There was...a battle, he couldn't remember it well.

"Who...are you?" He asked, his eyesight starting to clear up enough to where he could clearly see the 'moving background' was a forest, and that they were, indeed, on a wagon. _Better than riding a horse_ he thought.

"My name's Ralof, I'm from-"

"No, I mean _you_, all of you. Who was fighting who?"

"Who else is fighting in this gods' forsaken country?" Another voice answered, and he looked at a man sitting next to Ralof, a mane of reddish brown hair around a skinny face and body, dressed in simple brown clothing that might have been burlap, he couldn't see that well yet. "If it's not the Empire starting a fight, it's the Stormcloaks."

That seemed to fit. So he ended up close to a battle between a few hundreds Imperials and Stormcloaks. Someone chased him, he remembered, and he got hit in the head with a war hammer...

He lifted his hand to feel his head, only then noticing that his hands were bound in rope. He felt his head, and noticed the _very_ tender lump there, as well as the dried blood. His scaled helmet must have saved his life.

It was with that revelation that he looked down and realized his scaled armor was gone, leaving him in his tan, padded gambson and ragged pants. They even took his shoes, leaving his feet at the mercy of his foot wraps. "Where's my armor?" He asked, slightly panicked.

"They confiscated all our weapons when we surrendered" Ralof explained. "I'm guessing your armor worried someone. Was it enchanted?"

"Yes, it had some good enchantments on it too. Made my magicka regenerate almost faster than I could cast. Cost me thousands of gold" he explained. He then called to the driver of the wagon, "If I don't get my weapons and armor back when this is over-"

"Shut up back there!" The driver called back, cutting him off.

The man sighed and looked around. Those were definately pine trees, his nose also confirmed it, which said to him 'Falkreath' as well. They were heading downhill, though a fog obscuring anything beyond a hundred feet, and there were light patches of snow all around where it fell through the canopy. He touched his face and noticed his skin was clammy and cold from the fog and outdoors. If it weren't for his padded clothes, and the fact that it was still late summer, he might died from the cold.

With his eyesight almost back to normal, though the headache still bothered him fiercely, he looked at the convoy, though there wasn't much to see aside from a bear of a man sitting next to him. Seeing as the man in steel armor under thick furs was gagged, he addressed the skinny nord accompanying them.

"And you are?"

"Lokir. An innocent horse thief dragged into this like you."

"Einherjar of Bruma, a Companion. My friends call me Ein" the young man introduced himself. He then jerked his head toward the gagged man. "Who's that."

"I don't know, probably a typical nobleman who loves his terrible voice too much" Lokir answered.

"Watch your tongue!" Ralof boomed. "You're speaking of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

That got Ein's attention right away. If it were just a group of Stormcloaks the Imperials would probably follow procedure enough for Ein to plead his innocence, but with a target like the leader of the rebellion all bets were off.

"The Jarl of Windhelm?" Lokir asked. "If they've captured you then...oh Gods, where are they taking us?"

"Stay calm, I've been in worse spots than this before" Ein lied. "As long as we don't do anything stupid we can still get out of this as free men."

"I don't know where we're going" Ralof said solumnly, "but Sovngarde awaits."

"And you're not helping!" Ein abonished. Quietly, his mind was racing with things that could go wrong, which were multitudinous, and tried to focus on ways he could survive this, which were few.

Within a few minutes the convoy stopped, and Ein could make out cobblestone and mortar ramparts surrounding a few towers. "See?" Ein mentioned to Lokir, who had begun quiet prayers of salvation to the Divines, "We're not going directly to the Imperial City. We stop here, we have a chance to plead our innocence."

"General Tullius sir, the headsman is waiting" a voice above the wooden gates called out, as if deliberately mocking the young Nord.

As Lokir's prayers became just a little louder and included a few more Divines, Ein noticed the oddity of the situation, even as he began to sweat in the chill fog. They were being executed here? It served Imperial interests best if Ulfric were given an appropriate trial as a show of the Empire's ability to maintain order, as well as depicting the rebel leader as a common criminal rather than a legitimate threat. And executing him in the Imperial City would also put on a show for any other would-be dissidents. Ein could only come up with a couple explanations for this: either the Military Governor wanted the pleasure of killing Ulfric himself, or the situation was desperate. It was the latter possibility that worried Ein more, as it meant they'd be even less willing to listen to him.

As the convoy started to pass through the large wooden doors, Ein realized with a start that this was not a fort, but a town. It might have started life as a fort centuries ago, but the houses had too much of a personal touch, there were too many people not in uniform, for it to be solely a military outpost.

"Helgen" Ralof mused, "I used to be sweet on a girl from here." Ein tuned him out, trying to learn as much as he could about the situation, find whatever he could to use to his advantage. Looking behind at the receeding town entrance, he saw a silver haired man in regal Imperial armor, Tullius probably, conversing with some Thalmor on horseback. From the subtle body movements he caught, it seemed the Imperial was very aggitated.

After circling several houses to the far side of the quaint little hamlet, the wagons parked near a wall and legionnaires ordered them to get off. In front of their wagon stood a Nord in Imperial armor, and a female Redguard whose laminar armor indicated her to be of high rank. "Step forward when your name is called" the Nord ordered.

"No wait! We're not rebels!" Lokir called out.

"Stay calm, we're not dead yet" Ein whispered through clenched teeth. "Don't do anything stupid!"

"Face your death with some courage, horse thief" Ralof stated mildly, which earned him a scornful look from Ein he didn't appear to notice.

When they were out of the wagon, Ein not quite recovered enough to be steady on his feet, the Nord started calling out names with their appropriate titles and epithets. Ulfric and Ralof were called early, as well as a few others. Then it got down to just Lokir and Ein.

"Lokir of Rorikstead" the man called out.

"No, I'm not a rebel, you can't do this!" Lokir shouted.

"Lokir, don't-" Ein said, ending in a shout as the thin Nord took off at a sprint toward the nearest town gate. The man barely made it fifty feet before he was shot in the back with three arrows, dead before he hit the ground. Ein sighed in frustration, "Don't do anything stupid..." He finished, forlornly.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The Redguard captain demanded.

The Nord looked at Ein then, as if noticing him for the first time. "You there, step forward." Ein did so to where he was ten feet from the two legionnaires, trying to look neither defiant, confident, nor scared, the latter of which was the only one hard to pull off. "Who...are you?"

Ein felt an iota of hope at that. They weren't just sending him straight to the headsman without questions! "Einherjar of Whiterun. I'm a member of the Companions."

The Nord looked thoughful at this statement. With a mild "uh-huh" he beckoned Ein to continue.

"I was investigating the area around Fort Amol for bandit activity at the behest of a group of merchants when I stumbled upon the battle and was waylaid by an Imperial scout as I tried to give them a wide berth."

"Uh-huh" the man repeated, clearly taking in his statement.

"I was wearing enchanted scaled armor then. If you ask whoever confiscated it, he'll confirm it has no Stormcloak insignia or even their colors. Or better yet, send a message to Kodlak Whitemane in Whiterun, he'll confirm I was in the area on a Companion's sanctioned investigation."

"Hmm" the man hummed, mulling over this information.

"The Companions have consistently refused any aid to the rebels," _and the empire_, he thought as well but knew not to remind them of, "and we would be most appreciative of the oppotunity to further prove my innocence."

The man hummed again in thought, then turned to his superior, "Captain, what should we do? He doesn't look like one of them, and he's not on the list."

Ein felt a wave of relief sweep through him as the man was willing to hear him out. He instantly decided he liked him.

"Forget the list, he goes to the block."

"WHAT!?" Ein shouted in a high pitch he hadn't achieved since he was ten.

"I'm sorry prisoner" the Nord legionnaire apologized, "at least you'll die here, in your homeland" Ein immediately decided he didn't like the man anymore.

End of Chapter One.

Author's Note: just a little tidbit of information, Lokir's insult of Ulfric's nobility was inspired by a phrase credited to Aristophanes, "You have all the characteristics of a popular politician: a horrible voice, bad breeding, and a vulgar manner."


End file.
